


Better Than Prison

by recrudescence



Category: Firefly
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-01
Updated: 2010-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-05 14:45:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recrudescence/pseuds/recrudescence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It turns out the doc is nice and compliant when he's had a few. Mal's pretty pleased about that. This is what happens when people listen to him. Should happen more often. The listening part <i>and</i> the Simon-being-more-compliant part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Better Than Prison

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Porn Battle](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/10575.html) prompt: _Mal/Simon, disorientation_. Co-written with Nakeno.

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[firefly fic](http://community.livejournal.com/all_very_doable/tag/firefly+fic), [mal/simon](http://community.livejournal.com/all_very_doable/tag/mal/simon)  
  
---|---  
  
_**Better Than Prison**_  
**Title:** Better Than Prison  
**Authors:** [](http://nakeno.livejournal.com/profile)[**nakeno**](http://nakeno.livejournal.com/) and [](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/profile)[**recrudescence**](http://recrudescence.livejournal.com/)  
**Fandom:** Firefly  
**Pairing: **Mal/Simon  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Disclaimer:** We do not own or profit from any of the source material.  
**Summary:** It turns out the doc is nice and compliant when he's had a few. Mal's pretty pleased about that. This is what happens when people listen to him. Should happen more often. The listening part _and_ the Simon-being-more-compliant part.   
**Notes:** Written for the [Porn Battle](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/10575.html) prompt: _Mal/Simon, disorientation_.  
**Word Count: **3,845

 

"Toast," says Mal, certain he looks disgusted and even more certain he doesn't care.

Simon shrugs helplessly. "It's the only thing I ever learned how to cook."

"_Cook_?"

"Unless you have eggs. Then I can make eggs."

Rutting rich folk and their entourages of spoon-feeders. "Aren't doctors supposed to know about nutrition? How the body works, that kind of useful stuff?"

"I know what to put in it, not how to create it." As if that's not clear enough, he scrapes dolefully at one of the blacker pieces of toast. "It's more complicated than I thought."

"And now my galley smells like someone took a blowtorch to it."

Simon looks a little embarrassed. Fine by Mal. "We'd make a special kind of it for New Year's. With jam. Osiris had a lunar festival. I was—"

Mal doesn't buy into bygone lunar activity as a means of celebration and they sure as hell don't have any jam. "Doc, can't you just drink till you're sick to commemorate the new year like any other normal person would?"

"I suppose I could be persuaded."

They never do get any form of New Year's toast, but when festivities are winding down and there's plenty of wine to go around, it turns out the doc is nice and compliant when he's had a few. Mal's pretty pleased about that. This is what happens when people listen to him. Should happen more often. The listening part _and_ the Simon-being-more-compliant part.

Even more when it graduates to a Simon-sprawled-in-a-chair-with-his-top-button-undone thing. "I mean," he's saying. "I could be in prison now, but...'m not."

Mal, thoughtfully, with those heavy-lidded eyes and a touch of color to his own face. "Yeah... don't 'spect you'd do well in prison."

And the doctor looks a little nonplussed at that. "Which means?"

Gesturing with his glass; boots on the edge of the table, slumped in the thick chair of the common area, hair mussed. "Well.... look at you. Self-'splantory."

It's a testament to how much wine he's had that Simon doesn't take umbrage in the least. Just takes another long swallow and looks closely at Mal before asking, "Have you ever been in prison?"

Mal's face hardens on the edges a bit, eyes averting and shoulders setting-- as well as they can in such a degraded position. "Hm." And that's all he really cares to say about the matter. He's seen what happens to pretty-faced boys like Simon in a place where all the scourge of society is shoved into cramped, dirty little cells. He doesn't care to think of the doc in such a position. Mal himself has always been a fighter. Kick-gouge-bite-_stab_. Keep to yourself and keep your head low; a black-eye helped his own situation.

At the larger table in the galley, Wash and Zoe seem to be untangling to go about taking their canoodling elsewhere. Mal gives a lazy wave, not really watching as the place clears out. Just him and the doctor. Probably the most relaxed Mal's ever seen him.

"I thought I would," Simon murmurs, studying his glass now--mug, really; they don't have wineglasses. "When I was looking for River, when I got arrested, I didn't see it going any other way, even when we made it to Persephone. I still wonder, sometimes." Which is a fair enough qualm, with Jayne onboard.

"Depends on the prison, really." Closed eyes coming open slowly, Mal struggling to sit up; thumping his cup down on the table and unzipping his boots. Tugging them off one at a time to set them aside before collapsing back. There. Much better. If nothing else, he should sleep well tonight. Deep and dreamless, as he preferred.

Comfortable and drowsy until Simon sighs a little and says, "Sex in prison isn't ideal, anyway." Which, all right, _understatement_, and where did that come from? And more importantly, what does he know about _anything_ that goes on in prison?

Mal snorts into his cup, watching the liquid sway back and forth, back and forth as he tilts it subtly, "I'll say." Expression unreadable, "It would be especially _not_ ideal for _you_, doctor." A beat. "Trust me on that, if nothing else." The captain puts his socked feet to the floor, leans up with his elbows on his knees, his eyes drunk-intent on Simon's face. "_Especially_. Un... ideal..." He's not even sure that's a word. Point is. Simon would be in complete and utter hell.

"Something that's occurred to me a time or two," Simon answers flatly.

A drunken, crooked smile, "Luckily, if I have a say-so in it, it won't be a problem for you..." He has no intention of allowing his medic, nor his crazy-ass sister, falling into anyone's guardianship but his own.

"You'll, what, maybe hold a charity auction so I can have a private cell?" Simon's head lolling against the back of the couch, something like a smile hesitating on his face.

"Well, if it came down to it, I suppose I could hold a claim on you. That sometimes dissuades the...advances...of others." And by "advances" he means being cornered in the darker halls of concrete-- back where no one can see, no one can hear.

"Claim." The doctor seems to roll that word around in his mouth, the way Mal's heard you're supposed to do with actual _good_ wine instead of the bargain-basement stuff they've been swilling tonight. Simon's cheeks are pink with it, his limbs looser, hair a little less well-kept than usual, but the eyes looking out from under it are still cutting and clear. "How would you go about _claiming_?"

Mal with his gaze leveled right back, a bare raising of eyebrows. "Well, a decent public display is usually best."

"Public..." Point-blank, after another sip of wine: "How do you know all this?"

The captain raises and drops his shoulders. "You pick up things here and there-- being around where I've been around."

"And you can tell a lot about a person by the things they know." Simon is still looking at him, gaze perhaps more focused than before. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then appears to think better of it, then opens it again. "If it had to be you," softly, pensively, "I could cope with that."

Mal smirks softly, shaking his head, "Not sure I could..." Cope, that is. Not like that. Not for Simon. In public, in a place like that-- none of it would sit easy with Mal. None of it. "Not to say you're the silk-sheet, bed of roses type, but..." It had surprised him, really. How well the young doctor had taken to life out in the black.

Fingers combing back black hair, Mal's eyes following the movement. "You cope with more than enough as it is. Picking fugitives for your crew. Picking _Jayne_." The mug seems to be empty now and Simon rises and leans in to set it on the table, stretching both hands over his head and seeming to smirk a bit. "I don't care for roses, no."

Mal's thumb on that second button of that prim vest, just pressing there; "And what _do_ you care for?"

And Simon sinks back down, a little unsteadily, not into the same seat as before but onto the wide plush arm of the chair Mal happens to be in. "Staying out of prison is a start." Chin down, studying Mal's hand.

Simon's head down, Mal's hand up; from thumbing a pearl button to thumbing the sharp curve of the rich kid's jaw. "That the only requirement?"

"No." Whispered and silk-soft, perfect match to the mouth that opens delicately over the pad of his thumb.

He traces the pink-wet bottom lip before letting his hand drop. Trouser-clad legs, those hips perched as neatly as can be there on the chair arm. Mal's hand on the inside of a thigh, rubbing. "What else, then?" The captain's voice is a little tighter than before.

There's only the faintest hint of blue between those downcast lashes, and Simon's voice is faint and breathy. "I care for keeping River away from any place that could hurt her." There's a little catch in his voice when Mal's hand kneads up a bit higher; one of the doctor's own settles on the back of the chair for balance, then seems to find Mal's back a more satisfactory substitute. "I care for being able to do my job and for having a safe place to stay and for you to keep doing that." Everything blends together at the end, rushing out of him like water from a hastily turned on tap.

Mal's hand on that thigh, _squeezing_ lightly; Simon swaying toward him, mumbling. Almost slurring. Not that it really matters, what with the captain getting a hand around that nape, urging him down. Urging his mouth against his own. "Looks like we have most of that covered..." Warmmessy, wine-wet.

Simon doesn't kiss like someone's buttoned-up maiden aunt, and that's a lovely little surprise. What he _does_ do is moan, quiet and tremulous, and slide his fingers through the hair at the back of Mal's head, cradling his skull and slipping his tongue out to meet his own, hotdamp and languid.

His mouth is soft. Sinful-like. Melting-molding and having Mal winding an arm around that slim waist. Drawing him clear off the couch arm and into the captain's lap. Hand scrunching those neat clothes, tongue counting teeth and running along the ridges across the roof of the mouth with a soft, approving noise.  
Drunk-hazy and wonderful. Warmth in his middle, in his face, between his thighs. Simon's weight on his thighs and hands in his hair.

The kid's sitting sideways across him and shifting even closer; there's the brush of cloth against cloth when their chests touch and Simon's hotparted mouth makes a garbled gasp-groan against his own. Dexterous fingers closing in his hair, in his button-down, causing it to bunch up his back slightly. Open-and-close gripping of both those hands, again and again, like a cat pawing and kneading at a pillow. Mal's tongue trailing over straight white teeth and out along the line of the doctor's jaw--Simon freezes for a second and Mal thinks he's about to get up and flee the scene, but no, only getting a knee worked down between Mal's hip and an arm of the chair. Following suit with the other until he's being kissed and clasped at and _straddled_.

Which isn't all that disagreeable, if one were to ask. Mal applies a bit of suction, _sliding_ his hands across those hips, stretching them up the curved bow of Simon's back; having untucked those shirts, sneaking them up under the material where he can get at smooth-warm skin.

Sucking and touching and their medic _really_ seems to like that, so he tries another pass up and down that slim back, drawing his nails along it this time. "More..." Simon's tongue in his mouth, wine-wet and lithe, and both those neat little surgeons' hands are clench-tugging Mal's shirt up his back. "Take this off," from Simon, sounding heated and more than a little breathless, hips starting to _push_ against his own in a halting rhythm that makes him very acutely aware of how much this is affecting him in that approximate area.

Hips up, head tilted back in order to accommodate; Mal fingering buttons free in order to shrug out of it; sort of caught and cramped. Like they don't have plenty of room to move over onto the couch if they please. He doesn't plan to mention it, not whilst he's basically _grinding_ against the doctor; watching him gasp-hiccup and _shudder_ as he paws, tugs, and pulls. Dirty-messy-_drunk_. But the need is palpable, the desire burning hot on the skin, in the blood, along with the alcohol.

Bare from the waist up, Simon still fully clothed but very definitely rumpled. Dark hair tickling his shoulder and collarbone, mussed up good and proper when Mal's hand seizes in it and that slick mouth blazes a trail down his chest to latch onto a nipple and somehow daintily _bite_. Thin hips still surging and pushing where they're fitted against the arch of his own, and the doctor is _hard_ in his tailored gray slacks. Hard and _licking_ at him and making an array of wet, hungry little noises like there's no tomorrow.

And, hell, is he supposed to say no to _this_? Drunk or not, the doc definitely knows what he's doing; not even that clumsy at it, even. Mal with his head back, brow drawn down and teeth bared, all hard planes and angles and muscle. Tan-scarred and work-worn; hand clenching hair, smooth-undulating back. Jerk-fight that vest off-- tug loose some of all that nice pressed-down niceness.

Simon's mouth is hanging open, lips smeared and wet--he catches that chin in his palm, catches that mouth with his own, drinking in every little whimper and grunt as his other hand briskly works down the orderly line of buttons on a once-pressed dress shirt. Like there's any need for dress shirts on this ship. He loses his concentration a few buttons in, but that's okay because there's a decent expanse of satiny skin to map out with his fingers and Simon seems to approve of that anyhow, judging by the way his head falls back a little and his fingers--_tzao gao_\--start grabbing at Mal's belt.

The captain's hips canting up, swallowing hard, expression intent as he works that hair in both his hands, latches onto that cream-pale throat and _sucks_ until Simon has a groan echoing back at them from the low-set ceiling. And whatever Simon plans to do, he ought maybe to do it quick; giving that if he gets any drunker, he's either going to be very poor to perform or frustrated as all hell. The doc seems pretty much on the matter, however, what with him scrabbling open worn leather, popping the buttons on Mal's front and shoving that slim-warm hand down there.

He isn't quiet about it either. Simon likes to move, likes to make _noises_\--nothing loud enough to wake anyone, but small-desperate scraps of sound that seem to be _dragged_ up out of him. Like _he_'s the one getting jerked off slow and hard, not Mal. All kinds of nice, that, and then Simon slides off his lap and down to the floor and for a second there Mal thinks he's passing out.

The captain with his teeth in his bottom lip, head back and nearly going cross-eyed. At first, he'd dug his fingers into Simon's arm, side, afraid that he were falling-- not the case. The doc _willingly_ slipping off him, _kneeling_. And sweet mother that's... that's Simon with his dark head over Mal's lap and Mal leaning over him with this ragged-harsh sound dragged out of him; fingers twist-curling in that hair, grip-grasping and trying not to _thrust_.

Mouthing him. Very _enthusiastically_, even. Mal's cock is hard, heavy and flushed and a little damp at the tip, and when Simon's soft lips tighten around him and slide down, the boy loosing a deep-chested sound that's positively _hedonistic_, Mal doesn't know what else to do but curse in a low, frenzied tone. _Stroke_ over Simon's head, neck, shoulders as the pliant pad of his tongue and the slicksoft insides of his cheeks _mold_ around him. Hands hooking inside his trousers, the doctor's head lifting long enough for Mal to make a quiet sound of disappoint--can't be stopping already, can he? Thankfully, no, as Simon only looks at him with wide eyes and tugs at that rough tan cloth. "Down. Please."

_Please_, even. Kid's giving head and his manners are _perfectly_ intact. Mal just swallows, collapsing back against that chair and squirming his hips out of those pants, working them to his knees; upholstery to his bare ass. No matter; with Simon's pale-supple fingers exploring over tanned skin; thighs and tender backs of knees and barebare hips. Causing him to twist all up inside and near want to beg for it all to snap free.

What the hell was he thinking, letting this happen out here? _Right_ by the galley, where anyone could come wandering out for a snack or a cup of tea and find him near-naked with his cock in the medic's mouth. That claws at his conscience a fair bit, but his head is fogged from wine and pleasure and then Simon takes in a heavy breath through his nose and _swallows_, one slender hand pressing down between his own spread knees.

Don't suppose he could pass it off as some kind of exam; given the obscene _sucking_ sounds that mouth is making and the hard-strained groans that are coming out of Mal's own. Hands flexed tight into the chair's arms, into a thin shoulder, trying not to grasp that dark hair and _push_ downward. Just as he's trying not to thrust up into that slick-wet sensation running over his cock time and time again, pushing him closer to crazy with every go.

Those dark brows contracted in concentration, Simon's mouth sinking _lower_, until the tip of his nose brushes Mal's stomach and dearsweet_fuck_, that's hot. _Whining_ as he's got Mal's cock down his throat, and another glance down reveals he's managed to work his own pants open and take a hand to himself, swollen-red and clearly, clearly just as close to losing himself as Mal, though how he has the coordination is currently beyond the captain's now-very-limited comprehension skills.

Mal's white-socked toes _curling_, thighs spread as wide as the chair allows, hips steadying rolling up into that sweethot suction. Those hot little vibrations when Simon _groans_ around him, tongue curling. Lapping. _Licking_ him each time he pulls up, and sucking him with every drop of that dark head. Mal trying to keep his eyes open, bare slits of glittering darkblue beneath his lashes, watching that doctorly hand around Simon's erection, dark and leaking, jerking fast and hard and oh sweet mother of _Christ_...

It's too much: something has to give out and it happens to be Simon. Mal's surprised he kept up the multi-tasking _this_ long. Pulling off, Head dropping against Mal's knee, leaving him slickhard and sorutting_close_. Lips decadently redswollen, eyes closed with pleasure, face arranged in an expression that takes him from pretty to _gorgeous_, though Mal doesn't intend to say as much. Simon's hand still working over himself shamelessly until he's burying his face against the inside of Mal's thigh, whimpering, and that slim, still-clothed body _convulses_ there on the floor.

Mal with his hand on the boy's head, feeling that silky hair under his fingers and palms while his other hand is wrapped tight around himself, jerking himself sure and impatient toward that edge he'd been so deliciously urged to as the boy's face is _rightthere_.

And it might be because of the alcohol, might be because Mal's made it clear he plans to take care of the kid and not let him end up inside a cell if he can help it, but Simon seems trust him. Just mouthing at Mal's thigh, pants still parted and eyes still dark, lifting his face up and murmuring, "'s okay. Do it."

"_Nngh._" Mal aroused and surprised; those Core-bred folk are a lot dirtier than they let on. His head leaning back some, hips shifting just so; eyes slitted and on that flushed-pretty face and this very quiet sound from the back of the captain's throat. His hand involuntarily gripping in that hair, tugging that face up toward him, to meet his eyes at the very least. And Mal's swallowing hard and his face is contorting, biting down on said lip as he spills over fingers and pale-peach skin; and dear _Lord_ there is something very dirty and satisfying about that, there really, really is.

And Simon does nothing to contradict that thought when he trails a finger over his lip and _sucks_ slowly, letting his head once again rest laxly against Mal's knee.   
Then, "Better than prison?" floats up to him from the floor.

A surprised, breathless huff of laughter comes free of him, swallowing, nodding; "You...you've really no idea."

"I don't," solemnly, damp fingers teasing idly over Mal's cock. And Simon finally slips that shirt over his head, wiping off soiled skin before setting it aside.

Mal's head lolling against the chair back, lazy-drunk and sated; every limb feeling overly heavy and warm. Watching Simon slip out of his white shirt, watching him wipe up some. And Mal takes hold of a handful of hair and tips that face up so he can lean over, lean down; kiss that soft-salty mouth. Drinks that sharp-surprised little gasp right out of it. "And now?" Quiet and serious, fingers steadily petting at the dark locks, whether consciously or not.  
Maybe it is that the doc doesn't quite know what he's asking.

"I'd like to know what I'm getting into." The words are completely serious, not matching at all with the way the doctor sleepily smothers a yawn and sinks more heavily against him.

God, and just to gather up all those sleepy-lazy limbs against him, just kiss that mouth until he's had his fill. "Maybe so. Depends... depends on what you'd fancy to know, I guess."

Simon does seem a little perplexed on that front. "I'm not sure." Those abused lips twist into a tiny, rueful smile as he clumsily draws his pants closed again. "But you say I can trust you, and I believe you. That's...novel."

"Mmm... I told you before, if anything were to happen... I'd be upfront about it. Never behind your back. I can give that much." Sweet-soft and drunk-hazy. Mal shifting on the chair and reluctantly untangling his hand from that hair in order to put himself to rights. He'll carry his boots with him to his bunk. His bunk... speaking of. "Do you think your sister is all right for the night?" Quiet and curious.

Simon hefts himself back up onto the couch. "She's been sleeping better from the latest medication." Looking as if he could very well fall asleep himself.

"Good." The captain unsteadily to his feet, grasping Simon by the wrists and tugging. Urging him up. "Then bed with me tonight... Just for tonight if you want."

The boy doesn't answer immediately, seeming to debate the ethics of straying more than six feet from his sister, and then his head bobs into a nod, wrists making no move to twist out of Mal's grip. "Only for a few hours. I'll have to be out early, before anyone...in case..."

Mal nods quickly, lean-ducking his head in to kiss that pretty-pink mouth. Sure and slow. "Yes... yeah, I know." Hushed and whispered. Tugging him away from the couch, "C'mon."

Bundle him down the ladder and into his bed, clothes in a heap on the floor and Simon a warm-drowsy weight on top of him. Actual bed, actual privacy. Actual full-bodied nakedness. Not even bothering with the blankets.

Doesn't matter much to him that he forgets his boots.


End file.
